


Exactly So

by Wanderbird



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderbird/pseuds/Wanderbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nightmares have plagued Charles before, but now they have grown suddenly worse. And, of course, the voice from the dream is still calling when he wakes. Well, more like screaming. <br/>Fun-V. Right. Because being captured by terrorists and half-drowned with a car battery strapped to his chest is totally what Tony thinks of as fun. At least the strange British voice in his head seems benevolent.</p>
<p>Set right before Wolverine's arrival in the new timeline of the X-Men universe and during the beginning of the first Iron Man movie in the Marvel universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He's Broken, Why Can't You See That?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/653015) by [teainthetardiswithloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teainthetardiswithloki/pseuds/teainthetardiswithloki). 



> Warning: The first paragraph of this chapter includes waterboarding. If that is a problem, please skip over it.

The crackle of the damn electromagnet heralded another arc of searing fire through Tony’s body as his head was submerged in a blinding whirlwind of panic. Waterboarding, it was called, whispered a faint voice of knife-edge logic in his head. Tony’s lungs began to fill with water again. He tried to cough, an automatic reflex, but it only sent more bloody water heaving into his lungs and another agonizing sparkle of electricity lunging from the car battery into his nerves. Of course, that same dwindling murmur of consciousness continued, one thing these people didn’t have was a waterboarding table, so instead of a cloth, they were making do with dunking him intermittently in a container of water. It had the added bonus of making the electromagnet that fucking doctor put in his chest crackle and pop like it was the goddamned fourth of July, so why not? Stomach acid surged as Tony gagged, burning as it went until finally his gasping mouth met with sweet, shockingly cold air for a few blessed moments. His mouth gaped, but any cries for aid were strangled by the return of the water tank plunging toward his head. The internal scream of _help me, dear god somebody help me_ was subsumed by an incoherent wail as water invaded once more.

Charles tore himself out of the nightmare, shaking himself awake. Why in the world his sleep had been filled with that, night after night he had no idea. It had started… when? A couple days ago, in little snippets, but only now had the eerily realistic nightmares begun to fill every minute of sleep. So much for resting. He sighed. It wasn’t like his legs were ever likely to recover anyway. The amount of sheer hope Hank still somehow had on that point was frankly ridiculous. As for the school idea… it had been ludicrous since the start, starting some sort of school for mutants. Even if war hadn’t broken out, it still would have been hopeless. Charles ran a hand through the beginnings of an unkempt beard. What the—the cries of that poor man in his dreams were still careening through his head, faint though they were. Charles hauled himself to the side of his bed and dropped into the waiting wheelchair with a lurch, dragging his useless legs after him. They hit the floor with a thump. He thought about asking Hank to come and help him dress, but decided against it upon discovering that the young scientist had fallen asleep at last, after being awake most of the night working on an experiment. Charles Xavier propped his head on his hands, fingertips just touching his temples, and opened his mind to the strange, frantic voice that echoed through it.

It took a long moment before Charles could comprehend anything but overwhelming panic, terror, and the sheer intensity of agonizing sensation ramming its way through the stranger’s body. The screaming had been reduced to a mere whimper of desperate obedience to the looming, chaotic, and incomprehensible torment of its surroundings. Charles picked his way through the taut, animal mind. The situation—the person’s aggressors, whoever they were, wanted him to do something, build something. The image that came to mind was that of a missile, and a scene of the missile exploding, a handful of faces—no matter. Whatever it was, the person obviously had no means of escape. That meant, Charles knew, that at some point, they would be forced to give in or die, and the aggressors seemed not to have any intention of letting their victim perish. He made a snap decision.   
_Do it,_ he told the stranger. _You’ll have to do what they say eventually. Just do it, and perhaps we can find a way out of this.  
_ The man was yanked out of the water one more time, and allowed to collapse on the ground, hacking water, blood, and bile into the dust. When he began to breathe hoarsely, another man approached, asking something in some other language.   
Charles touched that other mind just enough to understand his words before reporting back to the victim. _Say yes,_ he urged, _and they might stop this. Say you’ll do it._  
The victim gave a small guttural noise.   
Charles took over, slipping into the controls of the victim’s mind as delicately as he could. He croaked through the ravaged body, barely loud enough for the other man to hear. “I’ll do it.”

Tony had no idea why the torture had stopped, only that it had. Yinsen insisted that he had agreed to make the missile, but that didn’t sound right. Whatever. The little British voice in his head suggested he try and make something else instead of the missile, something that he could use to escape. Yinsen agreed, or at least agreed that he shouldn’t spend his last week of life making a missile that would leave the goddamned body count as his only legacy. Now that was a plan Tony could get behind. Well, if his brain were working a little quicker, that is. At least he’d managed to keep the car battery attached the whole time, remarked an optimistic tendril of verbal thought. And he was alive.   
_What?_ Asked the British voice confusedly. _Car battery—ah. I… see.  
_ Something about that rang as wrong to Tony, but he couldn’t quite seem to figure out what. Shouldn’t a voice in his own head know what was going on as well as the rest of him did? Whatever. Back to the task at hand. He would need to make something if he planned to escape this place, something that could carry at least two. And something that could stand up to the bullets these damned terrorists presumably had in their myriad guns. Not a weapon, because then he could still be killed. Not a land vehicle, or he could be caught. Maybe… like the Transformers? Armor?   
_You can do that?  
Sure,_ thought Tony, _why not?  
_ The British voice was silent. When it finally spoke, it was tinged with surprise. _By all means, I suppose, go ahead. Just—do me a favor and try to avoid killing anyone._

Hank knocked on the dark oak of the Professor’s door. “Charles?” he asked. “You alright? You still aren’t up.” When no response came, he let himself in.   
Charles was sitting in his wheelchair in his pajamas, elbows propped on the armrests of the chair, face pressed by gravity against his hands poised as they were when he was using his telepathy.   
His eyes were staring motionlessly into space.   
“Professor? You look like you’re miles away.”   
Silence.  
Hank shook the telepath’s shoulder gently, dread rising in his stomach. “Charles?”   
At long last the professor blinked, looking up at the scientist. He smiled wanly. “Thank you, Hank. I do believe I have found the source of my recent nightmares.”

The British voice hadn’t made an appearance in a while. That was alright, though, Tony seemed to be figuring things out. Well, in a hysterical sort of way. By the time he was strong enough for the soldiers to put a bag over his head and drag him out into the sunlight in between cliffs, he had made a plan. Well, a very simple, optimistic sort of plan. And he had figured out what to ask for: the things he would probably need to make a giant metal suit of armor, the things he would need to (hopefully, if all went well and he managed to figure out how) make a miniature arc reactor, and a few more things to make the guise of building a missile a little more probable. And hopefully he could come up with the rest while flying by the seat of his pants.

“Hank, I really don’t think I should leave this man alone for long.”   
“Yeah, I know,” the young scientist answered. “You think he’s a danger to himself and others but come on, Charles, you can’t help him, you keep saying it yourself. You haven’t eaten all day, you need to get dressed, shave, bathe, and I’m not going to let you ignore your own health for something that has been taking over your entire mind like some overly possessive ghost every night. It’s not safe! You didn’t even know I was there until I practically screamed in your ear. That’s not safe.”   
“I’ll be fine, Hank, he needs me.” Charles said forcefully. “ _He’s_ not safe.”   
“What if he’s stronger than you, Charles? He might read your thoughts or control you or something! Even if he can’t do that, he can certainly continue to, to swamp you in his own mind like he’s been doing.”   
“From what I can tell, he’s completely untrained.”   
“Or a little too busy screaming himself hoarse to do anything about it,” Hank protested. “This isn’t safe.”   
Charles wheeled himself a couple feet backward, out of Hank’s easy reach. “I know. And I’m doing it anyway.”

The voice touched his mind again. Tony looked up from his work, hands blistered and shaking. The assholes couldn’t see fit to getting him a pair of gloves suitable for anything short of forge work. Cutting metal—no, let him get shards of the stuff in his hands. Whatever. He sat back.   
_You seem to be doing rather better._ There it was again, the calming British voice.   
“Yeah,” Tony muttered. “I figured out why you rang a bell as something weird. You’re not from my head, are you?”   
Somewhere far away, Charles grinned. _No. I see we have not been properly introduced, given that you were rather occupied at the time. My name is Charles Francis Xavier. I’m a telepath, hence why I’ve been able to speak to you this whole time. So are you.  
_ “A mutant?” he murmured.   
_Yes. May I ask what your name is?  
_ “Tony,” he sighed. “My name’s Tony Stark.” This last pronouncement produced an astonishing lack of awe. Oh, the British guy seemed to admire him, sure, but nothing like most of what Tony was used to.   
_I did have some forewarning,_ the stranger remarked sarcastically. _And I rather suspect I’ve seen you at your worse. It was the torture, I suspect, which unlocked this particular facet of your gift and definitely that which launched your plea for help halfway across the world into my head as I slept.  
_ “You said I’m a telepath?”   
_Yes. And you can stop referring to me as the stranger. Call me Charles.  
_ Tony raised his eyebrows. “A mutant.”   
_Yes.  
_ Tony ran a hand through his hair. “Shit.” _So what do I do,_ he thought, concentrating on the wisp of the stranger’s—Charles’—voice, _think at you?  
Exactly so, my friend, _came the response. _Exactly so._

Charles was cheerfully eating his breakfast with Hank, though the latter looked thoroughly exhausted. It was Charles who had made the meal for once, he was in such a good mood, despite it being only simple oatmeal. Not everything was perfect, certainly, but his own life was going well and nobody had caught on to Tony’s scheme yet.   
“What progress have you made on that little machine of yours?” he asked.   
“Oh,” Hank answered, “Not much. I, uh, I actually abandoned it for now in favor of taking another try at the serum.”   
“Really?” Charles cocked his head. “I thought you’d given up on that.”   
“No, um, I actually am, um, using it as inspiration for a sort of cure thing to your legs. See, essentially what it’s supposed to do is activate the parts of DNA that make you look human, right? But I might be able to tweak that so that it also creates sort of partial rapid healing and if it can do that, it could kind of heal your spine, right? Or at least, that’s my theory. I- I mean it’s a long shot, but…” “I think it might well work wonderfully.” He gave a brisk smile, eyes twinkling.   
Hank blushed.  
_SHIT!  
_ Charles jumped, eyes widening in alarm. He pressed one hand to his temple and followed Tony’s mental thread to see through his eyes. Nothing unusual, just the inside of the lab-inside-a-cave he’d been working in. A machine gun fired somewhere nearby.   
_Where’s Yinsen?_ Charles asked.   
“He’s buying me some time,” Tony muttered, an edge of hysteria to his voice. _They figured us out and came in while I was still trying to put the suit on, we blew them up when they opened the door, but the program is taking way too long to compile and execute and I_ can’t move _until it does and Yinsen is in danger and--_ The progress bar on the laptop reached 100%. The clasps holding Tony’s suit released and he fell to the ground, hurrying into the shadows as soon as it did.   
_What are you doing?_ Charles demanded.   
_What do you think? Getting behind their line of sight._ As predicted, a small group of men walked in, clustered back to the door, guns pointed and fingers on the trigger. One of them strayed into line of sight of his corner, but a quick blast of a palm gun took care of him.   
_Don’t kill them!_ Charles shouted to Tony as he advanced, sidling behind the main group as they fired on where the engineer had been.   
_Why not? They were certainly going to kill me, and they’ve just opened fire._ Tony doled out a slow, mechanical punch to each man, leaving them sprawled on the floor, and lumbered on.   
_Because it’s wrong! Tony, please, stop!  
I’ve killed plenty of innocent people before with my weapons technology. At least these people aren’t precisely innocent, _he retorted, _and I’m killing them directly. Isn’t this better?_   
Even Charles could hear the bitter regret in his mental voice.   
_You don’t want to hear or see them die, Charles? Fine._ With that, Tony gave a little twist that sent Charles falling out of his mind. _Don’t._  
  



	2. Not My Father's Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading, and sorry for the long time between updates. Life is interesting. ^_^

Face-down in the blazing sand, Tony could think of better moments. I mean, sure, he was alive, but that was about all he could say for himself. He was generally beat-up, had a piece of shrapnel just waiting for his chestpiece to run out of battery so it could plunge into his heart, lost and alone in the middle of a desert somewhere in Afghanistan (probably) without an ounce of supplies, and Charles was—Charles was gone. It was ridiculous! He shouldn’t be so attached to the man yet, they only just met. Of course, the quiet voice murmured, Charles was the one who saved him, gave him the idea to make the suit, and was altogether responsible for his continued existence. Tony sighed.  
No trying to contact Charles, even if he could. The man would doubtless be disgusted and furious, given his reaction to Tony’s killing his aggressors. There would be no help from that quarter. Great. How the hell was he going to—telepathy. Right.  
Tony squirmed out of his armor (Way too bulky, he’d have to find some way to slim it down) and plopped himself down on the sand with a wince of pain. Maybe he could… contact Rhodey? Or someone? Wait, he thought, maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to let anyone know he was a mutant. Especially not anyone in the government. Mutants didn’t exactly have good press, I mean why else would the main superhero team in a world with a bunch of mutants running around be solely made up of humans that were simply experimented on or victims of accidents instead of said mutants? So could he… pretend to be someone else? Maybe. But it was probably simpler, he realized, to pretend not to be anybody. To make Rhodey think he was just another thought. If Rhodey made it out of that massacre, that is. Tony shivered at the idea, despite the baking heat. If Rhodey was dead… better not to think about it.  
He ran a hand through his hair. Right. Contacting help. He propped his elbows on his knees and his face on his hands until he was about as comfortable as he was likely to get. How was he supposed to do this again? Tony tried his best to clear the cacophony of his thoughts. Maybe he would just... hear everybody else around him?  
After a couple minutes, he finally managed to get his brain to shut up. There was the faintest trace of a thought there. Tony poked at it.  
_You incompetent idiots!_ The voice shouted. _How did you not notice what he was up to?_  
There was no mistaking what the speaker meant by "he". Tony shied away from his captor, sending his mind back to searching. There was another small cluster of minds around the apparent leader, he could safely ignore those. In the other direction, though, were a handful of voices that seemed promising. Tony searched through them as best he could until-- Rhodey! The "voice" of Colonel James Rhodes was unmistakable. It sounded just like his real voice.  
_There's nothing here,_ Rhodes' voice nagged. _Have we really got the resources to comb this entire desert looking?_  
Tony jumped on the chance, thinking as he had to Charles. _Yes. Yes you do. I mean, um, I do._ Wow, he was bad at this. _Or at least to look a little bit farther north._ This was probably north of them.

Charles felt a surge of joy and exhausted relief from Tony even through his present exhausted cloud of depression. A tentative probe yielded that he had been found. So Tony escaped. The people who found him were... a couple of American military men, by the looks of them, but Tony seemed to know at least one of them well. Colonel Rhodes. Well... good for him. He sighed. Even though it came at the cost of too many lives.

I have to do this quickly, Tony thought. And it'd better work. How do I-- press conference. If the press knows before anybody else, the company can't do anything to take it back. Is this a good idea? Hell no. It'll do shit for our business plan. Is it worth it? Hell yes. I know Howard-- dad always thought he was doing the best thing he could, but... no. Charles is right. Killing is wrong, and I really have spent my whole life killing people. Or at least helping others kill people. And yeah, I suppose I agree to the military's cause, but... all those innocents that get killed, murdered, especially by something like the Jericho are, well innocent. Helpless, They couldn't do a thing to help themselves against something like my missiles and nobody else is about to help them. The world's most famous mass murderer-- it's true. So. Press conference. Smash the Stark Industries business plan into tiny pieces. And then-- try to ride out the ensuing chaos. Great.

"Did I just paint a target on the back of my head?" Tony braced himself for the incoming wall of disapproval. Sure enough, there it came.  
"Your head? What about my head?" Obadiah demanded. "What do you think the over-under on the stock drop is going to be tomorrow?"  
"Optimistically, 40 points."  
"Tony--"  
The younger man interrupted. "We're a weapons manufacturer, I know, Obi. But only because of dad, because that's what dad decided to make the company into. And that may have been useful in his time, but now... no."  
"What we do keeps the world from falling into chaos." Obi glared.  
"What we do makes it fall faster. Our weapons were kept, in pristine condition, by a terrorist organization and that means somebody sold it to them. It can't be us, I know, we don't double deal, but a weapon is one person's hand is a weapon that can be given to someone else." Tony gave his mentor a long, searching look. "We're gonna have to try something else. I want us to take another look into arc reactor technology."  
"Oh, come on, Tony. The arc reactor was a publicity stunt! Besides, someone's gonna be in the weapons technology field, it may as well be us."  
"No. Charles was right, killing is wrong and that's exactly what we've been doing. We're the best in the business and the only people that can get this kind of innovation. If we're out, nobody gets good tech. If we're in, anybody who can afford it does." Tony fiddled with his sunglasses one-handed. "The arc reactor works."  
Obadiah raised an eyebrow. "Charles?"  
Tony froze. "Someone I met. He was... with me. In Afghanistan. He didn't-- couldn't escape with me." All true. Technically.  
Obi seemed to let it pass. "Tony, the arc was never cost effective. We knew that before we built it."  
There was some feeling in the back of Tony's mind, coming from the little thread where Charles was. No. Charles would never want to hear from him again.  
"Arc reactor technology," Obi continued, "That's a dead end, right?"  
It felt like some great, ominous storm cloud looming-- no. "Maybe."  
"Am I right?" Tony threw himself into the conversation with renewed vigor. Anything to avoid thinking, talking about Charles. Why was that one man weighing so heavily on him? No, he thought, don't you dare think about him. Charles made his choice, even though we got really weirdly close in those few days-- _I rather suspect I've seen you at your worst_ , he'd said. No, Tony decided. No, that didn't have to mean anything. Charles had never seen him at his best.

It hurt. Everything hurt to Charles as he sat blankly in his wheelchair. Everything except his legs, his _bloody_ legs. If only they hurt too. Even the link with Tony hurt, though why he had sustained it, Charles had no idea. There he was, though, the bloody American, and what was he doing now? Building a machine to kill more people. If only Tony would talk to him, say something, they could work something out. Right? And then everything would be that little bit better. If only his students hadn't gotten drafted for the war, if only the bullet hadn't ricocheted into his spine, if only Raven hadn't gone with Erik, if only. If only.

The fevered frenzy of invention which followed left even Tony a little breathless. Actually, it made him a lot breathless, but only because Dummy kept spraying him with whatever the stuff is that comes out of fire extinguishers. In the face. What was in those things, anyway? No matter. What mattered was that the suit was about done. Finally. Tony peered at the thing as it stood, newly assembled. The eyes seemed to be staring at him. The hot rod red had definitely been a good touch, though, even if it wasn’t inconspicuous in the least. I mean, whew! What a ride this baby would be. “JARVIS,” he announced, grinning like a madman. “Suit me up.”

Charles’ thoughts were filled with chaos. He soared through the sky in some sort of suit, the scalding wind whipping exhilaratingly against his faceplate. It almost seemed enjoyable for once, except that behind him cried a thousand telepathic voices—  
_My son! My son!_ screamed one. _My arm! My legs! My daughters! My life!_ The babble magnified, the voices blending together, some with words, some with only wails or screams of pain. His head was packed with it, seething with it. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see. Only the cries of the dead and the dying, the fallen and surviving, a child, an old man, a soldier, limbs blown by the blast squealed through his mind. There was a piece of shrapnel lodged in his leg—but his legs didn’t work, right? Erik’s bullet—A balloon of heat expanded like some absurd child’s toy, enveloping the village, the market, the soldiers, the battlefield. The mind that tried to save it.

Tony was just pulling out of his upward dive when it hit him.  
A babble of voices, scrambled and fearful, shooting ghostly pains through his body. One, intimately familiar, was stronger than the others. Charles’ gory mob of thoughts amplified the faint whispers Tony had been hearing already, the scrambling traces of what little remained of the filthy base where he was held. The racket of sensation deafened him, taking every ounce of concentration just to keep his hands down as stabilizers for the suit. The wave threatened to overwhelm him soon, if he didn’t do anything about it—and then it was gone, as a gargantuan boom came from the base.  
Well, it used to be a base. Now it just looked like a giant fiery mushroom cloud.  
Wait.  
The voice, the voice that belonged to Charles.  
It disappeared, at the same time as the explosion.  
Was Charles… The Titanic of dread hit the iceberg of realization, and the whole mess sank in Tony’s stomach. Had Charles been there too? A visitor, or a reporter, or another captive? Was that why… why he hadn’t wanted Tony to kill all those people? Was Charles a soldier?  
Tony rocketed upward as he gave the boosters another little push of power.  
Shit _._ No matter the British man’s opinions on killing the killers, he had saved Tony. Sort of, in a roundabout sort of way. Or, given another interpretation, the man who ruined his life, but that was alright. Nobody had to know he was a mutant. Right?  
In any case, Tony thought, it was definitely Charles’ fault he was alive right now. And of all the two, maybe three people in the world—that had been in the world a moment ago—who actually cared about him for himself, as Tony, not some celebrity billionaire, one of them… Charles. Dead? It would be silly to hope not. How else, how else would he have known the predicament Tony was in? Why else wouldn’t he have wanted anyone killed, not even the bastard who arranged the whole catastrophe? Surely Charles had felt the venom in that mind that even Tony, weak as his telepathy seemed to be, had noticed. To look through his eyes, to see through his ears. In the process, Charles would have had to also feel with his skin. Wouldn’t he? And he was the one that capitulated, Tony knew, the one that stopped the cycle of water and arcing energy, the… experiences. He must have felt that, too.  
Guilt set in.  
And now Tony had killed him.


	3. Never Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New chapter! Finally! Sorry for the wait.

He woke with a start, body trembling. He could feel it, still, lingering on his skin. The fire. The bombs. The bullets. Thank god, thank god he woke up. Charles brought a clammy hand to his face. After a moment, he felt fevered tears begin to soak his fingers. His back curled in on itself, the other hand rising involuntarily to his forehead, and he convulsed as a sob ripped through him. The roar of the explosion, the cries of the dying, the battered—stop it. Stop it, Charles thought, stop it, stop it. He rocked back and forth, just a little, fingernails digging into his forehead. Tony thought that if Charles wasn’t actively in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to see with his eyes, hear with his ears—true enough. But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to keep from following the man’s path when he slept. And Charles—Charles couldn’t only hear their cries.  
There were footsteps on the floor outside his room. After a few beats, they paused and a knock came on the door.  
Charles bit his lip. Not now, he couldn’t deal with this right now. “Go away,” he tried to say, but the sound came out as a croak. He tried again. “Hank, go away.”  
“Charles?” Hank sounded concerned.  
He tried to stay as still as he could, to not let out the gasp that threatened to escape. “I’m fine,” air was heaved into his lungs. “Go away.” His voice broke, damn it. Damn it.  
“Charles,” Hank said slowly, “I’m gonna come in. You don’t sound okay.”  
The door slowly creaked open, as predicted, and Hank stepped in, face wrinkled in confusion. Upon seeing the professor’s state, the scientist’s expression was replaced with one of worry.  
“Charles?” he asked, kneeling by the side of the bed, gently grasping one of his hands and pulling it from where it clawed at his face. “Charles, what’s wrong?” At the sight of the tears dripping from his face, Hank’s motions became rather more urgent.  
“Nothing,” Charles muttered as he convulsed in another sob. Then, with an edge of panic, his voice continued. Damn it, his voice didn’t have permission to keep talking. “I felt it, all of it, layers on layers on layers. The fire, the pain, the fire. Dear god. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, should have guessed.” His face crumpled. “I was there, I was there, and it hurt. I can feel it now; it’s still ghosting over me.”  
“Your… nightmares?” Hank hazarded a guess.  
“Nightmares. God, that doesn’t even begin to sum them up.” Charles gave a smile that had nothing to do with pleasure. “I’m there, Hank, I always am. When I’m asleep, I think it’s my brain, my brain goes wandering. And inevitably, it always finds the people in great pain or fear, because those are some of the strongest emotions, or great anger. And when I’m locked on to one person, I leech up the emotions of everyone around them. And, in some cases—physical sensation is a lot like emotion.”  
Hank sat on the edge of the bed. “Is this about that guy still? Tony?”  
The smile dropped, and he hunched further into himself. “He didn’t know, didn’t know what he was doing. How much it hurts me. How many innocents were there. I can’t afford to believe otherwise, Hank, I can’t.”  
A warm, wool-clad arm wrapped itself lightly around his shoulders. Charles leaned into it, tears still tumbling. Hank wisely refrained from saying ‘I told you so’. There are some times when you just don’t say that sort of thing.

A reporter’s words on the TV that rested on the side of the room caught Tony’s attention. Firefighter’s Family Fund? Why had nobody told him to be there? Or at least, like, suggested it? For a moment, Tony wasn’t sure whether to teeter back into morose despair or into blurred anger, but finally settled on the latter.  
“Jarvis?” he called. “Did we get an invite to that?” Best make sure people weren’t just, like, leaving him be out of pity or something.  
“I have no record of such, sir.”  
Damnit. Anger it would have to be, then. “I’m not invited to my own party,” he muttered. “Really? Come on, guys, I’m not that useless.” Should he just get up now, or… No. The armor. That would get him there way faster than anything else, fashionably late, and visible as hell. Man, that would be fun. Sadly, there was no way the armor’d be ready in time. Tony sighed wistfully. I guess I’ll just have to settle for my fanciest car.  
“Throw a little hot rod red in there, Jarvis.”  
By the time Tony strode into the reception, his seething was at least toned down enough to be mostly under control. He forced a cold smile onto his face. “What’s the world coming to, Obi, a man has to crash his own party?” Please burn, he thought. Make that be a nice singeing little ringer.  
 “I’ll see you inside.”  
Next there was that weird, flat agent guy. Coldson or something. Coulson. Much more interesting was the red-haired beauty in the open-backed dress, the absolutely stunning Pepper Potts. He approached his assistant, giving the agent guy an absent-minded goodbye.  
“You look fantastic, I didn’t even recognize you!”  
It was after that blonde reporter lady, Carrie or whatever, had started talking, that he saw the pictures. The Jericho missile, or missiles, in the hands of—was it an accident? Could it be? Or dear god, was the company double-dealing somewhere, was that why Obi hadn’t given him his invitation to this damned reception thingamajig? Was that why—shit.  
“Have you seen these pictures?” Again dangled the oscillation between depression and rage, but Tony clung tightly to the rage side in the hopes of staying lucid. “What’s going on?”  
“Tony,” Obi soothed, “you can’t afford to be this naïve.”  
“No,” Tony growled, “I was naïve before, when they said here’s the line, we don’t cross it, this is how we do business. If we’re double-dealing under the table… Are we?”  
“Come on, let’s take a picture.”  
Obi, he thought, you’re clearly, blatantly avoiding the question. Tell me we’re not, just tell me, damnit!  
“Tony… who do you think locked you out?” Obi murmured into his ear. “I was the one who filed the injunction against you. It’s the only way I can protect you.”  
Protect me? A boiling wave of fury rose in his stomach. Protect me!? I just went through, went through all that shit and now, only now, he tries to protect me? And like this? That, that—that was absurd! And now Obi was just sauntering out, out of this bloody nightmare of a reception like nothing happened. That fucker. That smarmy, conniving little shit. Tony was done. Done! And he would, he would hit Obi so hard—how? He was locked out of his own damned company, just like Obi said. And now he was down to what, one person on this whole damned planet that actually cared about him? God.  
To be honest, Tony was amazed he didn’t get arrested for reckless driving on the way home.  
Once there, Tony collapsed on the bed. Stupid, he thought, stupid, stupid, idiot little playboy, I should’ve guessed. If Obi’s double-dealing, if he locked me out, he obviously doesn’t give a shit about me. And that woman—Carrie, Colleen, whatever her name was—she was right. What’s going on back there is not right, and Stark Industries is making it fucking worse. God. What did I do to deserve this shit? My whole life, I guess, I’ve been propagating this. But at least I tried to make sure the weapons were only in the right hands, for all the good it did me. For all the good it did the world. For all the good it did Charles. Charles, would Tony ever forget the man? The man he, he, he killed? God, he kind of hoped not. What would that mean, that he’d become as bad as, I don’t know, as some other asshole? Tony rubbed his temples gently with trembling fingers. Shit. Come to think of it, Tony realized, he did kill all those other people. The soldiers. But then, they kinda signed up for it. Did they? I mean, really, did all of them voluntarily sign up to be soldiers, to die in the line of duty? Damn, this was making his head hurt. But the fact of the matter was, if Obi had gotten him locked out of the company, Tony had no power to end the weapons manufacturing part, and Obi was sure to make sure that press statement was seen as having nothing to do with the company’s actual business plan. There was nothing he could do. Maybe he really was that useless. Did more harm than good. Tony’s stomach roiled, as his thoughts continued inexorably down. He’d killed thousands of people, at least indirectly, and now he’d killed Charles, too, Charles who saved him, Charles who begged him not to kill his captors. And now Tony was helpless, as he maybe should have always been, so he wouldn’t do too much damage. Charles, he thought. Please be alive.

 


End file.
